


Putain, Je Ne Sais Pas

by bienenalster (pinkspider)



Series: Tracks [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Character Study, Competence Kink, Competition, Developing Relationship, Foe Yay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 21:33:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3665904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkspider/pseuds/bienenalster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course all eyes are on Jack Zimmermann, chosen one and heir apparent to the hockey throne of Canada and the whole world, really. Kent knows that it’s only to be expected. Bad Bob’s son is bound to make waves, just because of who his dad is. Granted, Zimmermann is good in his own right; Kent can admit that. He’s fast, he knows when to throw his weight around, and he has a mean slapshot – well, a mean everything, really. Still, calling him a generational talent and comparing him to Gretzky, to Crosby, to everyone who was ever anyone before he’s even played a minute of junior hockey? Kinda bullshit.</p><p>Or, that time Kent tries to have a feud with Jack and doesn't quite stick the landing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Putain, Je Ne Sais Pas

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [TRASHDRAGON RISING](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3792169) by [Pax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pax/pseuds/Pax). 



> Thanks to paxpinnae for being a good beta reader, specifically, and a pusher, generally. Written as sort of a bet (?) with her in response to her fantastic [Kent Parson fanmix](http://8tracks.com/paxpinnae/trashdragon-rising).

Of course all eyes are on Jack Zimmermann, chosen one and heir apparent to the hockey throne of Canada and the whole world, really. Kent knows that it’s only to be expected. Bad Bob’s son is bound to make waves, just because of who his dad is. Granted, Zimmermann is good in his own right; Kent can admit that. He’s fast, he knows when to throw his weight around, and he has a mean slapshot – well, a mean everything, really. Still, calling him a generational talent and comparing him to Gretzky, to Crosby, to everyone who was ever anyone before he’s even played a minute of junior hockey? Kinda bullshit.

And he already talks like he’s giving a press conference – perpetually. Like, he talks with that air of control, the careful consideration behind every word, the clear articulation, and the measured tones. They’ve only been in the Q for all of two weeks, and already Zimmermann expects to hold court with the press, the smug bastard.

It makes Kent want to puke.

Whatever. By the time Kent’s done here, people will be looking at him instead. No matter what it takes, Kent is gonna come out on top. So suck on that, Zimmermann.

Pulling out all the stops is the only way to get anything done. The most frustrating thing is that Zimmermann seems to agree, if his presence on the ice after all the other guys have gone back to the locker room to wash up after practice is any indication.

The first time they both linger on the ice, Kent gives him a quick nod and the most relaxed grin he has. Zimmermann returns the gesture, his smile more tentative and awkward, like he can’t decide whether to suggest that they work on a drill together or do his own thing. Kent doesn't give him the chance, just wheels around sharply and chases down a couple pucks, gathering them near the blue line. There’s a moment of silence as Kent pushes around the pucks, but it doesn't last long. The sinuous sound of Zimmermann’s skates scraping the ice and the thwack of Kent's blade against the pucks fill the silence.

Much to Kent’s satisfaction, Zimmermann is the first to skate off. When he skates by, Kent favors him with a two-fingered salute and his best mega-watt smile. “Later.”

Kent wastes no time figuring out an extra exercise schedule for himself. Get up at the asscrack of dawn. Protein. Brisk jog. Lunges, squats, all the weight training he can think of. Stay in the rink as long as the staff will let him. Assure his billet family and his real one that he won’t overdo it. Always watch Zimmermann out of the corner of his eye at practice to make sure his level of compete with the guy is still good.

It always is.

A few weeks after their last preseason match, Zimmermann finally breaks the silence during their after-practice rinktime.

"Hey, uh, Parse, wanna work on some passing? Looks like we’ll be playing on the same line a lot, so why not, eh?"

Kent spreads an affable grin across his face. "Yeah, sure, man. Good idea." They run through a couple different drills for about fifteen minutes, getting progressively fancier with their stick handling. Too easy. Time to test himself against Zimmermann head on.

He sweeps in and steals the puck away from Zimmermann, then goes speeding toward the other end of the ice. It takes Zimmermann practically no time to get over his initial surprise, and he gives chase. Kent's heart beats a little faster with the rush of it as he lengthens his stride, going full tilt, and as Zimmermann nears him (Christ, he's fast for a big guy, though it seems like most of him is ass and thighs, so it's probably to be expected) Kent turns on a dime, angling the puck away from Zimmermann. Zimmermann wheels around just as fast, losing almost no ground.

"Shit, dude," Kent half laughs despite himself as Zimmermann closes in and then comes up side by side with Kent, matching his pace and swiping furiously at the puck. Kent dangles the puck, bouncing it on this side of the tape then the other. He manages to keep it away from Zimmermann, but it isn’t easy.

Then, WHAM, Kent’s shoulder is grazing the board, and Zimmermann’s muscled him off the puck and is tearing away with a whoop of sheer exhilaration. With a slight "oof" of surprise, Kent wobbles just a little before getting his knees back under him and chasing after Zimmermann.

"Dick move there, Zimmermann!" Kent grits his teeth and doubles his speed. He's almost caught up when Zimmermann yells "Look alive, Parse!" and, without so much as a glance, shoots the puck behind him. Kent gathers it up on his stick before he’s even fully realized what happened, and next thing he knows, he’s slapped it into the net from a sharp angle.

"That was a beaut!" exclaims Zimmermann with this dopey smile on his face as he stops just before the boards. Kent coasts to a halt right in front of him, just in time for Zimmermann to tap his fist on Kent’s helmet. Kent laughs with him, and it takes a minute for him to realize that his smile is just as genuine and goofy as Zimmermann’s.

"That's gonna be so great once we start playing real games," enthuses Zimmermann.

"Yeah, dude," Kent returns. Zimmermann goes to fish the puck out of the net. Kent stares at his back and wonders what the hell just happened.


End file.
